Sons of Prydon
by Leda74
Summary: Centuries ago in the constellation of Kasterborous, in the Citadel of the Time Lords, fate brought two Gallifreyan boys together in a trial of adversity neither of them could ever have expected. And that is where it ALL began...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I am a seasoned Doctor Who fan with 32 years' love under my belt, but even so I'm nowhere near familiar enough with the reams of written material dealing with the Doctor's and the Master's early years to do most of it any justice in this story. I am therefore relying solely on the canon of the TV episodes themselves, and even then, I may either a) slip up, or b) take artistic licence, both of which I hope you'll forgive in the spirit of storytelling.**

**Thank you for reading. I shall try not to disappoint.**

* * *

The only sound in the room was the almost ceaseless scratch of a quill pen across a sheet of curling parchment.

The pen was lifted, dipped into a fine silver inkwell and returned to its labours with a neat economy of movement; the writer, meanwhile, had barely averted his focused gaze from the parchment all the while. He traced out another neat circle and began to fill it with letters, his breathing slow and steady. As he worked, a tiny smile began to crease the corner of his mouth as he imagined what his tutors would say if they could see him. Gallifreyan was a pure language, they said. The oldest and purest in the universe. Corrupting it in this way would cause no end of white faces and gasps of horror amongst the Academy faculty.

"What _are_ you doing?"

"Writing, Koschei," said the Doctor, casting the briefest sideways glance at his friend, now slouching in the doorway to their apartment. "I would have thought that much was obvious."

"Don't call me that, please. I respect your title even if I fail to understand it. The least you can do is respect mine." He emerged at last from the shadows of the arched doorway and moved over to the window, standing to one side to keep the brilliant sunlight out of his eyes, staring out over the forest as it shimmered in the light of second sunrise.

"I'm sorry," said the Doctor, setting the quill aside with exaggerated care and turning in his chair to study his friend with slight but perfectly serious curiosity. "Master. You know, I've been meaning to ask you why –" he went on, but his friend raised a hand to quell him.

"Ask all you will," he said, archly. "I don't plan to discuss it. It's not personal, you understand," he added, his imperious expression softening somewhat as he broke into an unfamiliar smile that bore the faintest hint of sufferance. "My parents questioned me as well, after the ceremony. They're not happy."

"It's not their business to ask you about your title, and the Academy will support you in that." The Doctor sighed, pushed the parchment aside and rose from his chair. He joined the other boy at the open window, and the breeze very briefly stirred his fine blond hair across his cheek.

"_You_ asked me," said the Master, a trifle reproachfully.

The Doctor waved an airy hand. "That's different," he said. "For one thing, I'm your friend, not your father. For another, I'm nosy." He stopped and chuckled, but sobered again at once as he saw that the Master was in no mood for levity, no matter how affectionately intended. "Look," he went on, changing tack, "your parents will come to terms with your choices in life, I'm sure of it."

"That's all very easy for you to say," the Master said with a one-sided shrug, and then, as if this gesture of irritation had not served him well enough, he scowled as well. "Your parents are just as unorthodox as you, if not more so. I hear your mother's been arguing with the Castellan over your term of service yet again, and your father can't seem to stay away from that silly little backwater planet, that...what is it called, again?"

"It's called Earth," said the Doctor, evenly, linking his hands behind his back, his peaceful smile broadening a notch.

"Savages," his friend replied bluntly, and then stepped over to the desk and picked up the fruits of the Doctor's work between finger and thumb. "Is this what he brought back for you? Ancient writing technology? Really, my friend, you might as well be chiselling away at a slab of granite." He paused, and then subjected the writing on the parchment to closer scrutiny, his brows knotting in disbelief. "And if the Docent sees this, you'll be in correction for the rest of the term. Adulterating Gallifreyan with _human_ language?"

"Merely an exercise," said the Doctor, taking back his property with one smooth movement and rolling up the parchment between his palms. "I wanted to see if the two could be effectively combined while still maintaining coherent grammar and clause structure. Besides, it's a remarkably pretty language, don't you think? It's called Latin. Father says the humans are developing some quite sophisticated cultures now."

"Sophisticated!" the Master cried, scornfully. "From what I hear, their chief hobby is shooting one another full of arrows. I'm surprised they find the time to write anything once they've cleared away the bodies and washed the blood out of their clothes."

"Well," said the Doctor, a mote of annoyance creeping into his tone, "if you've quite finished exerting your moral superiority over a fledgling species, isn't it about time we were going? Relative Time Theory and Practice in fifteen minutes. Hopefully, this time it won't just be the former," he added, a gleam in his eye. "I'm keen to get my hands on a real TARDIS, aren't you?"

"No, not especially, considering the number of restrictions placed upon their use," said the Master, fetching his mantle from its hook and fastening it around his narrow shoulders. "Has it ever occurred to you just how much power the Time Lords waste merely watching time, when they could be making use of it?"

"Making use?" echoed the Doctor, hiking one eyebrow as he spoke. "You know, sometimes you worry me with your use of language."

The Master didn't offer any response to this comment save for a perfectly serene smile.

* * *

The two boys were more than halfway across the Great Circle and approaching the high gates of the TARDIS field before the Master spoke up once more.

"I'm well aware of your concerns, Doctor," he said, without turning his head to address his friend, "but really, you needn't entertain them any further. I may not be content with mere philosophy, but I'm no more dissatisfied with this society than...well, than you are yourself." He laughed, and drew back his hood, allowing the light of the suns to glance across his sallow features.

"I imagine I'd be more than dissatisfied in your position," said the Doctor. He screwed up his eyes against the shining bronze light of noon as he raised his gaze to the gates on the far side of the circle. They were more than two storeys high, each bearing a carving of the Seal of Omega. "Such high expectations. Of course, you'll live up to them."

"Will I?" asked the Master, although he sounded amused. Without waiting for an answer, he raised his hand and knocked lightly on the gate, producing a hollow peal far out of proportion to his gentle rapping on the metal. In response, a smaller gate opened in the flawless silver surface, swinging inward on noiseless hinges. The Master stepped through, lifting the hem of his robes, and the Doctor followed.

The TARDIS field lay just outside the dome, and covered an area almost double that of the Citadel itself. Now that they were out in the open, the boys immediately felt the attention of the wild winds of spring, rather than just the tame breezes of the Citadel. The Doctor caught at the edges of his cloak and pulled them around himself; as soon as he had done so, however, the winds rose even further, as if determined to rip the garment from him. He stopped to sweep his hair back and cast his eyes over the sight that lay before them.

There were more than six hundred TARDISes on the field, arranged in perfect concentric circles with the teaching stage at their very centre. Most of them, he knew, already had pilots of their own, but there were a few reserved for training purposes. Idle now, they were all in their default form, and the Doctor thought to himself that they looked terribly bored.

He stopped to examine that thought because it interested him greatly, but remembering his father's tales of flights across the universe, through the breadth of space and the length of time, he couldn't see what was so outlandish about the observation. These were not just machines, he knew, and the seamless melding of the organic and the mechanical stemmed from technologies developed by Omega himself, and refined to such a point that it had scarcely been necessary to tamper with them since.

The Master set his head against the rising wind and continued down the gentle sandy slope, then stopped some way along the central aisle as it became clear that he was no longer in company. He turned over his shoulder to see the Doctor standing by the nearest TARDIS, tugging off one red velvet glove before laying his bare palm on the machine's flank, petting and soothing it.

"It must get lonely out here," the Doctor murmured. "Cold, too, I shouldn't wonder. I'm sorry."

"Have you quite finished?" asked the Master, after watching this performance for a few seconds. "Talking to a TARDIS now? I'm sure you get stranger each day."

The Doctor gave the soft, cool surface one last friendly pat and then turned away, drawing his glove back on and straightening the fabric across the back of his hand with minuscule attention to detail, well aware that this display would cause a further spike of irritation in the other boy; but then, what were best friends for? Only when the glove was fitted to his satisfaction did he look up into a distinctly chilly blue stare.

"If we're late, we'll be punished," said the Master, his voice cool and liquid in spite of his growing annoyance. The Doctor opened his mouth briefly, thought better of further provocation and merely shrugged lazily before sauntering down the path once more.

"Who cares if we're late?" he asked. "'I've never known Borusa lose his temper at anyone for anything. Even Maxil," he added, with a light snort, "and that boy's one of the most hapless students in the history of this Academy."

The Master turned a surprised expression on his friend, one black eyebrow curled.

"You didn't know?" he asked. "Borusa regenerated two days ago. I haven't the faintest idea what frame of mind he's likely to be in now."

"He did? He didn't. Did he?" the Doctor exclaimed, in some shock. "I didn't know he was dying."

"Regenerated of his own free will, or so I'm told," said the Master, lowering his voice to a hiss as they reached the edge of the low stage and mounted the pink-veined marble steps to the wide circular dais, approaching a gaggle of waiting students and their instructor, Borusa himself, now clearly not the man he once was. In place of the dumpy, slightly absent-minded little man with a shock of silver hair, the newly-regenerated Borusa towered over the two late arrivals in a swirl of elaborately trimmed black silk robes and matching cap, his arms folded and his cadaverous features set in lines of solid stone. He fixed each of the boys in turn with a stare that cut lines of cold fire across any embryonic hope of cheek or defiance, and waited until he was sure he had their full attention before speaking.

"You're late," he said.

"Forgive us, my Lord," said the Master, quickly. "We were –"

"You are sorely mistaken, boy," said Borusa, "if you believe I am in any way interested in your jabbering or fevered attempts at excuses. You are studying to be Time Lords, and if you are late in attending my class one more time – either of you – then I shall see to it that you're dismissed as unfit and removed from this Academy forthwith. Time Lords are _never_ _late_. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Yes, my Lord, very clear," said the Doctor, shuffling his foot awkwardly and averting his gaze. In the brief silence that followed, he fancied he heard a very quiet laugh from the gathering of students on the far side of the dais, but if Borusa also heard this, he elected to ignore it for the time being, and merely subjected the pair to a further moment of silent condemnation before continuing.

"Had I my way I would separate the two of you to minimise your potential for disruption," he said, severely, "but for now I have no option, since I have already assigned my teams. Still, you can surely make very little mischief in that," he said, extending an arm and indicating a tired, battered old Type 40 skulking in the low sand dunes that had formed at the windward side of the stage.

The Master turned first, and as his gaze landed on the sad and sorry thing, he balked.

"That belongs in a museum!" he protested, instinctively. Borusa's brows dropped at once, and his pale lips thinned so much they were in danger of vanishing entirely.

"Are you proposing to argue with me, boy?" he asked, the warning only thinly veiled by the question itself. The Master hung his head.

"No, my Lord," he muttered, then jabbed a surreptitious elbow into the Doctor's ribs. "Come on, then."

The Doctor, meanwhile, had suffered no such disappointment at their assigned machine. True, it stood amongst a rank of smart Type 70s like a wart, but in his mind's eye, it was shining like the brightest of beacons. He walked alongside the Master and down the steps at a steady, dignified pace, all the while battling the urge to run ahead like a child and throw himself through the doors with a whoop of intemperate glee. Sixty years of study, and theory, and – late at night, when the Citadel was fast asleep – gazing out of their apartment window at the dark and distant field with a longing sigh in his chest had finally come to fruition.

He was going to fly a TARDIS!


	2. Chapter 2

The Doctor finally abandoned the last of his iron self-control as the doors of the elderly TARDIS squeaked shut behind them, and as his friend looked on in frank astonishment, he danced around the dingy grey console, running his hands over the instrument panels as if to be sure they were real.

"Oh, you're beautiful, aren't you?" he murmured, tracing his fingers across the spatial overlap switches. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever known."

"I'm sharing a TARDIS with a madman," said the Master, beneath his breath, but he needn't have bothered lowering his voice; the Doctor's mind was very much otherwise engaged. He stood in the middle of the floor and spread his arms wide.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" he said, covered in joy.

The Master, meanwhile, had been studying the room through far more cynical eyes. He'd said that the thing belonged in a museum, but now, confronted with the shabby interior, filthy console and dented wall panels, he mentally amended his initial observation and concluded that it belonged on a junk-heap instead.

"It's poky," he said at last, wrinkling his nose in displeasure. "Really, I'll be amazed if this hideous contraption still works. I thought these models had been decommissioned decades ago. Do you suppose the Academy keeps them around specifically to punish tardy students?" he asked, with the merest ghost of a wry smile. "Meanwhile, we need to hear Borusa's instructions, in case you'd forgotten why we're here?"

"Sorry, yes," said the Doctor, looking suddenly contrite although no less impish, and his eyes were still alight with excitement. Turning, he saw a white-painted hat stand just inside the door, which caused him a moment's puzzlement, since it hadn't been there ten seconds before. Then he merely shrugged, unhooked his cloak and hung it up neatly. The Master, meanwhile, sighed wearily and slapped at a switch on the console, activating the external viewscreen.

The screen brightened at once and then displayed the image of Borusa's face, his expression still set in the faintest disdain as he spoke to his students in their respective TARDISes. The Master turned and listened attentively, while the Doctor laid his hands on the console and tried his best to concentrate on their tutor's words in spite of the myriad temptations at his fingertips.

"Your task today is perfectly simple," said Borusa. "You will each make a linear non-spatial jump two minutes into the future. Two minutes precisely. You are my students, and as such I do not expect you to miss this mark by so much as one half-second."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Could he possibly be any more dramatic?" he asked the air. The Master shushed him irritably as Borusa went on speaking.

"I have done my best to educate you on the risks involved in travel through the Time Vortex, and if you have been paying the slightest attention to me, then you will not be careless and no problems should arise. However," he added, his expression hardening even further, "in the event of your going astray, your TARDIS will be brought back immediately. Please attend to the console. I shall now conduct a test of your crafts' recall circuits."

"The what?" asked the Doctor, frowning, hunting around on the panel in front of him and then raising an eyebrow at his friend. "I'd appreciate a little help. Do you know what the recall circuit looks like?"

"Not in a Type 40, no," said the Master, absently, conducting his own helpless search of the panels on the far side of the console.

"All right," said the Doctor, through a deep sigh. "I'll watch this side, and you watch that one. Let me know if anything flashes, or beeps, or explodes." The Master jerked his head up in horror, and the Doctor smirked. "I'm joking! Goodness. Anything happening?"

"Nothing," said the Master, grimly. "Perhaps we should ask?"

"And look like idiots in front of the class?" said the Doctor. "No, thank you. We've already been humiliated once. It's too late, anyway," he added, nodding at the screen as Borusa raised his hand to signal that they should begin the test. "Are you ready?"

"With you at the helm? Oh, yes, I'm swimming in confidence," said the Master, his lip curled, but then Borusa waved them off with a dismissive flick of his wrist. The Doctor – who had been poised at the console like a concert pianist wreathed in breathless hush – tossed his head, dropped his hands to the dematerialisation controls and flipped back the switches one by one with a series of decisive clicks. As the central column began to rise and fall and the old machine's engines set up a slightly disconcerting wheeze and groan, he poked at the adjacent keyboard, entering the temporal coordinates as he hummed a happy, random little tune of his own devising.

"Are you sure you have the right settings?" asked the Master nervously, circling the console to stand behind his shoulder, trying to peer at the screen.

"Quite sure, thank you," said the Doctor evenly, without raising his gaze from his task. "Do you want to do this instead?"

"I'm _supposed _to be assisting," said his friend, meaningfully, "but if you feel you have everything under control, I shall leave you to it. That way I can deny all responsibility to Borusa when it goes wrong and we land upside-down halfway up the side of Mount Perdition."

"You're very amusing."

"I try my best."

"You have depressingly little faith in me," the Doctor chided, making a minor adjustment with a smug little twist in his expression. "What can possibly go wrong?"

It was only later that the Doctor would remember those words with painful, pinpoint clarity. For the time being, however, his attention was distracted by the sudden lurch that the TARDIS took. He cursed and clutched at the edge of the console as the machine swayed and rolled, pitching violently to one side. He heard the Master let out a curiously girlish yelp that would have been amusing under any other circumstances, but just as he was turning around to check on his friend's welfare, the TARDIS dropped again, this time raising a terrifying scream from the engines and rattling the Doctor's skull as he lost his balance and landed on the floor in an inelegant heap.

"Dratted thing," he said, finding that he was more annoyed than frightened, even as the TARDIS veered once more and sent him sliding across the floor on his back to fetch up against the wall. He took the brunt of the impact on the back of his neck, and as he rolled over and tried to blink his vision back into some semblance of focus, he saw the Master slumped against the door, his eyes closed and his face unsettlingly pale. The Doctor struggled up onto his hands and knees, crawled across the shaking, rolling floor to his unconscious friend and grabbed his shoulder, trying to rouse him.

As he did so, however, the console room was suddenly filled with a rhythmic, sonorous booming that set his teeth on edge and made his bones ache. The Cloister Bell, he assumed, although he'd never heard one before. This intrusive sound galvanized him, and as the TARDIS soared to the crest of another wave in the Vortex he took advantage of the momentary weightlessness, springing to his feet and making a headlong dive for the console. Grabbing for it with both hands, seizing the flight controls, he grinned triumphantly for a moment...and then froze.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered, his eyes darting over the instruments.

Short of any better-informed action, the Doctor steeled himself and flipped half a dozen levers and switches at random, as a result of which two things happened in rapid succession. First, the deafening peals of the Cloister Bell ceased at once, and he sighed with relief.

No sooner had he started to relax, however, than the lights in the console room failed, plunging the room into perfect darkness as the TARDIS turned on her roof and spun out of control.

* * *

The Doctor returned to consciousness a fraction at a time, and when he finally opened his eyes, the light was so bright that he shut them again at once with a plaintive whimper. It wasn't until he sat up that his already aching head came into sharp and abrupt contact with yet another hard surface, and he realised he was lying underneath the console.

He rubbed at the top of his head, his face screwed up in pain, and only then did he think to look around for the Master. He turned his head gingerly, wincing at every twinge in his sorely abused neck, and spotted him on the far side of the room, still out cold. The Doctor scooted across the floor and patted his friend's cool cheek gently but firmly.

"Come on, wake up," he said, forcing a note of joviality into his voice. "Your father's going to thrash me from here to Segonax as it is, so please don't die as well."

No response. Trying not to panic, he first laid his ear on the Master's chest, checking first one heartbeat and then the other; they were faint, but seemed steady enough, although the boy's breathing was uneven and rattled in his throat. Bereft of any further first aid ideas, the Doctor slumped into the corner and ran distracted fingers through his hair, exhaling harshly.

"Oh, Koschei. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"I told you not to call me that," mumbled the Master, and followed this with a protracted groan. The Doctor, twanging with sudden relief, assisted him in sitting up and then propped him carefully against the wall, where he blinked several times before glancing around at the room.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice still a little unsteady.

"I don't know," the Doctor admitted.

"How long was I unconscious?"

"I'm not sure."

"Where are we?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, thank you for that _wonderfully_ illuminating conversation," said the Master, as he regained his normal cadence and, with it, his accustomed world-weary sarcasm. "Hadn't we better find out? Assuming, that is, that opening the door and looking out of it isn't beyond you at this point."

The Doctor considered remonstrating, but it was clear that his friend was confused, worried and in a not inconsiderable amount of pain, so he decided to be charitable and merely patted the Master's shoulder before clambering to his feet, swaying slightly. Once the disorientating head rush cleared and he regained his equilibrium, he tugged at a lever on the console and turned as the inner doors swung open.

He hesitated at the outer doors, however, and as he reached for the latch, his hand began to tremble. There could be anything out there. The vacuum of space. The heart of a neutron star. A planet covered in lava or boiling acid. Ravenous birds with three heads and claws of fire. He'd been born on Gallifrey and raised in the Citadel since he was a small boy, and they were all he'd ever known. It might have been a monotonous life, but it was also safe and predictable. Now, a malfunctioning TARDIS had torn him away from his roots and family and dumped him...where?

He drew a breath so deep it made his lungs ache, and then opened the door.

"Oh..."


	3. Chapter 3

A few seconds later, the Doctor was back in the console room, fairly vibrating with nervous energy. The Master had finally managed to clear his head and drag himself up off the floor, although his temper was still simmering and he regarded his friend's evident agitation with some annoyance.

"Are we home?" he asked; a purely rhetorical question, given the Doctor's edgy grin.

"No, no, but um..." The Doctor visibly paused to regroup, his mouth working silently for a second or two. "You'd better come and have a look. It's safe. Probably."

"Your measure of probability has always been far too inaccurate for my comfort," said the Master, straightening his clothing and smoothing his hair back, "and in any case I'd prefer something closer to certainty. Very well," he went on, with a patient sigh, "I suppose I should see where you've stranded us."

"Stranded? Me?"

"I'll find some way to blame this on you, rest assured," said the Master, although he couldn't help but break into a tiny smile as he did so, and eventually relented. "Borusa will recall the TARDIS when he realises we're missing, so there's no harm done. You're still a reckless idiot, though, don't forget that."

The Doctor couldn't spare enough of his attention to muster the slightest retort to this amiable insult; his mind was buzzing with an uneasy blend of excitement and apprehension, both of these the result of what he'd seen in his brief glance outside the doors of the TARDIS. In truth, he was hoping that they could somehow delay their return to Gallifrey, even though the thought of being dropped so far from the only home he'd ever known was currently pricking at him with needles of primal dread. Pushing that sensation away, he took the Master by the elbow and ushered him to the door with transparent impatience.

"What's the matter with you?" asked the Master, as he tugged himself free of his friend's insistent grip, but by then the Doctor was pulling the doors wide open and stepping out into a sea of blaring, jangling noise.

The Master shied back reflexively. Everything that assaulted his senses through that open portal was both unfamiliar and deeply distressing. An endless stream of bipedal aliens bustled past in strange and bewildering clothes, chattering and laughing like so many mindless birds and forcing him to clamp his hands over his ears. The sky was blinding; not the soothing gold hue of his own world but a piercing azure blue that stung his eyes...and in that frightening sky, perhaps the worst detail of all: a single white sun like a glaring, angry eye, bathing him in entirely unaccustomed heat.

He was so deeply mired in instinctive fear of this strange world that he didn't respond at first when the Doctor, with a kindly chuckle, stepped back inside the vestibule of the TARDIS and slipped an arm around his shoulders to urge him out of the doors.

"It's all right," he said, soothingly. "Nothing to be afraid of. I think this is Earth."

The Master froze at once, stiffening his spine.

"Nothing to be afraid of?" he echoed, incredulously. "They're barbarians!"

"Look around you," insisted the Doctor, waving an arm at the milling crowd. "Do you see any barbarism?

The Master adopted a finely-tuned scowl of disapproval, but it was clear that he couldn't identify any overtly murderous acts in their immediate vicinity. Meanwhile, the Doctor had been glancing around at their location and its denizens with extreme interest. They had come to rest in some kind of gathering place; a broad paved square dominated by two large fountains gushing crystal clear water and – here he raised his gaze, shading his eyes against the brilliant sun – a lofty column with a statue perched on the top, presumably one of the natives of this planet, idolised for deeds of past heroism. Either that or a deity of some sort. The Doctor shrugged to himself. His father's accounts of the concept of religion on this planet had baffled him, to say the least.

"Didn't you say the humans were at war with their own kind?" the Master asked, determined to find any excuse, no matter how small, to flee back to the cool and quiet of the TARDIS.

The Doctor hesitated, and then shook his head. "They _were_," he said. "I suspect we've moved through time, as well. Everything looks so different from my father's sketches. And look," he added, pointing at the nearby road, which was snarled with mid-morning traffic, "they've developed travelling machines." He pouted thoughtfully for a second, and then brightened. "Come on, let's have a look around."

"What if they retrieve the TARDIS while we're gone?" said the Master, still hanging back like a nervous child.

"There's a failsafe," the Doctor told him, patiently. "They can't recall it without at least one person aboard. Now will you _please _come along? We may never get another chance like this. Where's your sense of adventure?" he asked, teasingly.

"I left it at home," muttered the Master, but his friend was already walking away.

* * *

Secreted in the lee of a fountain and obscured by the thronging crowds, two dark figures watched the boys heading for the gallery on the far side of the square. Once they were lost to sight, one of them spoke up, his voice rich and velvet.

"That's the Doctor?" asked the Black Guardian, turning a disbelieving sneer on his companion. "He's nothing but a pup. It would have been no trouble at all to strike at him on Gallifrey."

"No trouble for a complete fool," said the Master, folding his arms and returning that haughty glare with a disparaging look of his own. "What you intend is difficult enough without trying to do it under the noses of the Time Lords. I provided you with the _only_ possible opportunity to deal with the Doctor while he is still young and vulnerable, and far removed from the safety of the Citadel. However..." The Master's voice slowed, becoming distant and touched with sudden uncertainty, and his eyes narrowed.

"Yes?"

"We must proceed with caution," said the Master, finally returning his attention to the conversation. "Time is now in flux. There are already differences to events as I remember them."

"This is irrelevant," said the Guardian, waving one black-gloved hand through the air.

"It is _very_ relevant," the Master insisted, his tone frosty. "I can provide no guarantee of success, and even at this young age you'll find the Doctor full of art and cunning. Don't you think I know him better than you do?"

"Let us hope," said the Guardian, meaningfully, "that you know _yourself_ as well as you claim. It would be a matter of simplicity for me to return you to Xeriphas to suffer your inevitable fate."

This said, he faded into empty space with the soft ghost of a mocking laugh, leaving the Master standing in the midst of a crowd and yet, somehow, more alone than he'd ever been in his life. He was sure that the Guardian would continue to monitor him, however, so he bit back a scathing comment and returned to his TARDIS, which he had left on the south side of the square. Only once he was inside did he lean on the console and shake his head with a deep sigh.

At least, he mused, he was not without material assistance. He shot a furtive glance at the thing standing in the corner of the room, but it was still and unresponsive, and he had his doubts regarding the Guardian's assurance that it would be of use to him in his mission. He was miserably beholden, though, and given that fact he had little choice but to proceed as instructed.

Setting his jaw with grim determination, he engaged the dematerialisation circuits.

* * *

"What year is this?"

The Doctor didn't respond to this question at once. As soon as they'd stepped through the doors of the National Gallery, his attention had wandered away like an unsupervised kitten, and he was now peering eagerly through the door of the gift shop, inspecting the merchandise with his face set in a fascinated half-smile. At last, he turned, pondered the question for a moment and then cast around for clues. Spotting a poster for a forthcoming exhibition, he read the date and then thinned his lips.

"Well," he said, at length, "I was right. We have skipped forward in time. Um, a little bit," he added, struggling not to look shifty and evasive, but – judging by the expression on his friend's face – failing spectacularly.

"How far?" asked the Master, turning up his glare a notch or two.

"About eight hundred years," said the Doctor, aiming for an offhand manner as he spoke. He heard the other boy loose a tiny choking sound, and went on quickly: "Does it matter? We'll be fine, I assure you. Absolutely fine."

"You know, one of these days I shall stop believing you when you say things like that," said his friend, "but for now I'll humour you. What is this place?"

"Art," said the Doctor loftily, steering him toward the wood and glass doors that led to the first gallery, "is one of the most important benchmarks of a developing civilisation. I thought it might provide a nice little synopsis of everything we've missed as far as human culture's concerned."

"Primitive daubs," said the Master, his tone dismissive, but as they pushed through the doors into the room beyond, the Doctor cast a quick sidelong glance at his face and saw grudging admiration flowering there. The room was lined with magnificent portraits, most of which the Doctor tentatively identified as being mythical in nature. There were a preponderance of winged figures – angels, his father had called them – and a number of paintings of a mother and child.

"Do you still feel these people can evolve?" asked the Master, softly. The question caught the Doctor entirely by surprise, and he swung his head around, but his friend was staring up at one particular painting that stood out in stark contrast to the rest in its subject matter. It depicted a helpless man lying on the ground, his hands raised in supplication, while another man prepared to run him through with a short sword. The Doctor's smile faltered at the sight, but he made a brave attempt to analyse it for meaning within a context the Master might understand.

"You know as well as I do that our own history's no less bloody," he said, but felt the air between them grow cold as the other boy turned to face him with his gaze steeped in judgement.

"Bloody it might have been," he said, flatly, "but we've never commemorated it this way."

"I don't think you're being fair," the Doctor insisted. "Passing verdict on a whole species based on one painting? That's irrational."

"I don't want to be rational, Theta," the Master retorted, clearly employing the once congenial nickname as the subtlest of barbs. "I don't want to know anything more about these backward apes, their history or their culture. I don't want to be here at all, and I never did." He paused, but only in order to pick his next words. "You can stay here if you like. I'm going back to the TARDIS to wait until we're recalled."

"Wait a moment –" the Doctor began, but he was now speaking to the Master's back, and he reacted as the boy shoved through the doors and strode out of the gallery, giving chase and catching him up only when he was halfway down the stone steps that led back down to the square. "Wait," he repeated, hurrying alongside his friend. "There's no need to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," said the Master, without turning his head or softening his expression in the slightest. "I'm just not interested. As far as I'm concerned, if this is the measure of the rest of the universe, I'll be happy to spend the rest of my life on Gallifrey and leave it to you and your family to dirty yourselves associating with lower life forms."

This was too much for even the Doctor's affable temper, and he lowered a frown and made to take his friend by the shoulder. Only then did it occur to him, through his burgeoning anger, that the Master had come to a sudden halt, and was now standing in a cloud of horror, staring at their TARDIS.

Or, to be more accurate, at the spot where their TARDIS had been.


	4. Chapter 4

The Master cocked his head, studying the Doctor's TARDIS at some length before speaking.

The interlocking procedure had gone smoothly enough, although he'd felt the other machine put up something of a fight as his own TARDIS captured and contained it, much as if he were an angler trying to land a belligerent fish. Though he was certainly not a man given to the exaggerated sentimentality of anthropomorphism, the Master was aware of a distinctly sullen aura emanating from the thing that now stood in the corner of his console room, and he laughed softly at this before approaching the machine. He stood for a few seconds, watching it with interest, his arms neatly folded.

"Yes, you know who I am, don't you," he said, his tone mocking. "You know the future as well as the past. Dumb beast you may be, but it's an irony that in some ways you're better informed than the Time Lords themselves. Oh, if only I could plumb your memory..."

"Master!" cried a feeble, warbling electronic voice from the far side of the room. The Master frowned and swung around, then circled the console and looked down scornfully.

"What's the matter now?" he asked, impatience tainting his words. The robot he'd stolen from the Xeraphins was convulsing in the corner, slumped to one side, hands clawing feebly at the air in front of its face. It continued to wail and keen as he crouched down beside it and took its wrists to try to restrain the worst of the ague.

"Too much information! Help me!" The robot jerked once more, ripping free of his grasp. "Help!" it repeated, landing one hand on his arm as if begging for release from its distress. He shook off that light touch and then slapped the thing's cold metal face with clear irritation.

"Listen to me, Kamelion," he said, hoping the use of the robot's name would communicate his command of it and calm its sudden seizure. "You _must_ complete the transfer of data. My plans depend upon it." He glanced at the cable snaking from the robot's midsection to the port on the console of his TARDIS, and then sighed heavily. "You are in no pain, do you hear me? Finish your task. I don't wish to hear your complaints. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master," said the robot, although its voice was still sharp with suffering and its head jerked back and forth now and then. The Master waited for a moment to see if there would be any further outbursts or paroxysms, then shook his head in annoyance and stood up once more, attending to the console and checking the download, seeing that it was all but complete.

His own TARDIS was of the same type as the Doctor's, but he'd long since found it too rebellious and independent for his liking. Soon after stealing it, he'd re-routed the artron energy circuits, isolating the Heart from the Eye and effectively neutering the machine. This had resulted in much more compliant behaviour, although it meant that he was forced to fly on manual from then on. Still, it had been a small price to pay for disabling the TARDIS's irksome conscience and tendency to act on the slightest of whims.

A hollow whine filled the air in the console room; not so much a sound as the disconnected echo of a sound so far unheard. The Master turned over his shoulder and saw that the Doctor's TARDIS was struggling to dematerialise and escape his clutches. He double-checked the interlock settings on the screen to see that they were holding fast, and then smiled nastily.

"No, there's no getting away," he said. "Not this time. Don't worry, I have plans for you when I'm finished with the Doctor. I require one or two spare parts, for a start."

The captive machine fought once more, very briefly, before seeming to give up and shrink in its skin even as the Master watched it with wry condescension. Once it had subsided, he turned back to Kamelion and looked down at the robot, his expression haughty.

"Get up," he said, and nudged the thing with his toe to stress the point. Kamelion jerked, as if roused from sound sleep by a sudden noise, and then complied, slowly and painstakingly climbing to its feet and looking around in bewilderment. The Master sighed heavily and snapped his fingers at the robot.

"Pay attention to me," he said firmly, finally managing to attract Kamelion's attention. When he'd done so, he disconnected the cable that ran from its midsection, closed the cover of the access port and then locked gazes with it. The robot stilled at once as the Master's will overcame its own, and the Time Lord found that he could assert his psychic authority without great expenditure of effort.

"Master?" said Kamelion. Its voice sounded sleepy and disoriented.

"Listen carefully," said the Master, not blinking, keeping his considerable mental powers focused on the robot. "Your will is mine. You will obey my every thought and command without question or hesitation." He reached out and grasped Kamelion's head between his hands, reaffirming the mental bond with physical contact.

"Now," he said, quietly, "this is what you must do..."

* * *

"Oh, no..."

The Doctor was the first to react. He stepped into the vacant space in front of them and waved his hands in the air, his movements both vague and frantic. This attracted a number of puzzled glances from passers-by, but he disregarded these and moved over to his friend, who seemed to be on the verge of bubbling over with panic. The Master's eyes were wide and his nostrils flaring like a startled horse's, and he visibly jumped as the Doctor's hand closed on his shoulder.

"Calm down," said the Doctor, in the face of his own developing concern. "I'm sure there's an explanation."

"You said they couldn't recall the TARDIS without –"

"Yes, well," said the Doctor, looking away for a second in culpable embarrassment, his cheek colouring slightly, "I may have made that up. Look, I tried to reassure you. I'm sorry. I wanted to stay here for a while. To explore. You can understand that, can't you?"

"I can't understand any of this," said the Master, twisting out of his friend's grasp and stumbling away a few steps, his head turning to and fro as he scanned the busy human landscape. He looked lost and small, and as the Doctor watched him carefully, he rubbed at his elbows and started to shiver.

"Everything's going to be all right," he said, approaching the Master as he would a frightened animal, his movements slow and fluid.

"You keep saying that," his friend shot back, but his tone, presumably intended to be aggressive, was filtered through a distinct vocal quiver and sapped of its strength in the process. The Doctor exhaled long and slow and then moved around the other boy's shoulder to look him in the eye. This proved difficult for a moment, so he placed his palms on either side of the Master's face and gently forced eye contact, still ignoring the odd looks from the humans around them.

"I swear to you," he said, softly, "I won't see us stranded here."

"Home."

"What?" asked the Doctor. The word had been so small and weak he wasn't sure he'd heard it.

"I want to go home," repeated the Master, a little louder, and at that moment, his face fell in fear and his complexion drained of blood, leaving him white and trembling. The Doctor sighed and hugged him, the gesture entirely instinctive and perfectly natural. They'd been born within days of one another, their families had been close despite the vast difference in social standing – Koschei's father had been a member of the High Council since his first regeneration, while his own parents were only Seers – and they had been raised together, hardly a day going by without the boys getting up to some mischief or other. The Doctor considered the Master his brother in all but blood, particularly since neither had any siblings of their own.

"Come on," he said, soothingly. "I know you're frightened. You've every right."

The Master drew back, his expression slightly pinched. "And you're not?" he asked, accusingly.

The Doctor once again decided to remain silent in the face of his friend's hostility. It was an evident product of his apprehension and, as such, far too impersonal for an equally heated reaction on the Doctor's part. Instead, he simply touched the Master's arm lightly and indicated a narrow side street with a gentle tilt of his head.

"People are getting curious," he said, keeping his voice low and smooth, "and the way we're dressed, I can't say I blame them."

"Let them stare," snapped the Master.

"No," the Doctor told him, firmly, leading the way across the square with one hand closed around the other boy's elbow. "Panic isn't going to provide a way out of this, so if you would do me the courtesy of calming down a little, I'd appreciate it very much." Once they reached the shadows of the alleyway and, with it, a clear space free of the noisy pedestrian throng, the Doctor carefully composed himself as well and then cleared his throat a little.

"Is that better?" he asked, solicitously, and then changed tack without waiting for a response. "I've been thinking. What if this is part of the test?"

"Borusa wouldn't do that," the Master insisted. His mouth hung loose for a second as he thought again. "I know he was annoyed with us, but –"

"I have no idea of what he's capable," said the Doctor, flatly. "Nor do you."

"But it's against the rules. He can't just abandon us on a primitive planet like this..." insisted the Master, but his voice was speckled with uncertainty.

"It's the best theory I have," said the Doctor, through a light sigh. "The odds of a TARDIS malfunction are several million to one against, and even if it were to happen the chances of our landing on a civilised world," – he ignored a contemptuous snort from the other boy – "are even more remote."

"So what do we do now?" asked the Master, after a moment of hesitancy.

"We handle the situation with the quiet grace and dignity befitting Time Lords, of course," said the Doctor, smoothly. He paused to remove his cloak and hood, partly to blend in with the locals a little better, and partly because the sun had now reached its zenith and was proving uncomfortably hot to a young man accustomed to the cool, dry air of Gallifrey. As an afterthought, he stripped off his gloves as well and unfastened the top two buttons of his silk tunic with a breath of relief.

"You look like a sloven," said the Master, but his friend was pleased to see a tiny smile hatching on the boy's face at last.

"I look like a human," said the Doctor, with equal good humour.

"And that's a good thing?"

"It is to me," the Doctor replied.

* * *

Strange silver eyes followed the progress of the two boys down the shaded street.

Kamelion waited in the shadow of a battered telephone box, one hand clutching the structure for support. The robot was still unsteady, its head overloaded with information from the data banks of the Master's TARDIS. Adding to the distress this caused was the presence of the Master himself, which Kamelion could feel like a maddening itch somewhere behind its optic circuits. This did not provoke any emotion as such, since the robot was incapable of emotion, but every now and then it would shiver, and its fingers would tighten on the telephone box until the red paint cracked and the steel buckled slightly.

_Follow them._

"Master, I cannot."

_You do not dare defy me, _hissed the voice of the Time Lord, the command at once overwriting Kamelion's moment of weakness. It snapped to attention.

"I will follow them," it said, quietly, and in the back of its brain it felt the warm wash of the Master's satisfaction.

_Maintain your disguise at all times. _

"Yes, Master."

It was Kamelion who spoke these words, but now that the Master had quelled the last inconvenient traces of rebellion within the robot, the voice it used was no longer a plaintive electronic whine but a rich, resonant baritone. With one last shimmer, Kamelion perfected the illusion that had been forced upon it by the renegade Time Lord and stepped out...a perfect imitation of Lord Borusa.


	5. Chapter 5

The Master watched the driving rain and passing pedestrians through the window of the café with his face a perfectly blank mask and his eyes slightly unfocused. After a while, the Doctor touched his wrist, gently, to attract his attention.

"You're still worried," he said, not framing the words as a question.

"Not as such," replied the Master, sitting back to stretch his spine a little and then, quite unexpectedly, smiling. "I was wondering what it is you find so endearing about these creatures."

"People," said the Doctor, with the faintest note of admonishment. "Not 'creatures'. Just because they're less advanced than we are, there's no need to be so disparaging."

"Must you always lecture me?"

"Must you always require lecturing?" retorted the Doctor, quick as a whip, but amiably enough.

The two boys had found refuge in the café shortly after the rain began to fall. It wasn't this that had unnerved the Master so much as the rolls of thunder, to which they were not accustomed. Twenty generations of advanced planetary engineering had more or less tamed Gallifrey's climate; added to this, they had both spent most of their lives so far beneath the protective dome of the Citadel, shielded from the weather's very occasional vagaries.

In truth, however, the Doctor was enjoying himself immensely, despite the fact that he was uncomfortably damp from head to toe and, further than this, the ongoing uncertainty of their situation. He glanced down at the cups of tea they'd ordered; the human brew tasted strange, though not entirely unpleasant, and he'd chosen to take the small risk that anything on this planet could be poison to them.

The Master, however, had evidently not come to the same conclusion in his own assessment of the dangers. He had stared at the tea, sniffed briefly at the wisps of steam rising from its surface, then pulled a face and pushed it aside untouched.

"Supposing you're right," he said now, lacing his fingers beneath his chin and staring intently at the Doctor across the table. "What's the aim of this test?"

"I'm not sure," said the Doctor. He watched a scornful shadow flit across the other boy's face, and pressed on hurriedly. "But as Time Lords, we're supposed to be able to deal with the unexpected, aren't we? Perhaps Borusa's dropped us up to our necks in this to see how we react."

"And you've elected to react by sampling the local cuisine?" asked the Master, scathingly.

"It was your idea to get us out of the rain," the Doctor pointed out.

The Master waved a hand, the gesture dismissive. "Not germane," he said. "The truth is that we could be here for any reason at all, and therefore anything we choose to do from this point on could be right or wrong, and we have no way of telling which. Not without further instruction. However," he added, wearily, "you're right about one thing, at least. I don't like being rained upon." He chuckled softly, and then pulled at a wet strand of his black hair for a moment.

"Perhaps we should have stayed in the square," mused the Doctor. "I just didn't like to see you unnerved, that's all."

"Your concern is appreciated, but entirely unnecessary," said the Master. "Really, I'm fine now."

"Well, if you're sure," said the Doctor, peering at his friend closely for a second. "Then we should go back. The rain's stopping now." He angled his head out of the window, where the rainfall had slackened and was now little more than a fine mist in the air, and the thunder reduced to the softest of distant growls. A single spear of sunlight broke through the clouds as they watched, raising tiny rainbows from the beads of water upon the glass.

The boys were at the door of the café when a waitress hurried over and caught the Doctor by the elbow, her expression clearly one of annoyance. He tried not to react instinctively, but the sudden sensation of being touched by an alien being for the first time in his life had him struggling for words, and in the lee of his confusion, the waitress looked him up and down and tightened her grip on his arm a little.

"Haven't you forgotten something?" she asked. There was sarcasm in her tone, that much he could detect, and it was clear that he had somehow violated Earth custom, but the woman's words were cryptic, and the Doctor struggled to remember something from his father's accounts of human ways and means that would enable him to interpret what was clearly a request for action on his part.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," he said, weakly, giving up.

"You 'aven't paid," said the waitress, frowning at him. Understanding broke upon the Doctor at that moment, but this was swiftly followed by the appreciation of their situation. Neither of them had any human currency, nor anything of value to trade. He shot a desperate glance at the Master, and watched the other boy roll his eyes and step forward, placing a friendly hand on the woman's shoulder and looking into her eyes at close quarters.

"Yes, we have," he said smoothly, his voice dropping to a smooth purr. He continued to maintain his gaze, not blinking or shifting in the slightest, and after a few seconds, the waitress released the Doctor's arm, her hand falling to her side instead. She cocked her head to one side, her eyes widening, and her lips parted slightly.

"Yes, you have," she repeated, distantly.

"There's no problem here," said the Master, just as gently as before. His hand, which had rested on her shoulder, now trailed downward and made contact with the bare skin of her arm, the movement slow, deliberate and almost sensual. Only now did the Doctor realise what his friend was doing; instinct brought with it horrified reaction, but at the same time he was powerless to intervene, and his tongue seemed to have seized up entirely.

"No problem," said the mesmerised waitress.

"We'll be leaving now," the Master told her, as a tiny, self-satisfied smile creased the corner of his mouth.

"Yes," she responded, her voice now no more than a hoarse whisper. The Master nodded slightly, then broke both physical and visual contact with the woman, taking a step back and breathing out harshly. He half turned and then jerked his head at the Doctor.

"Let's go," he said, bluntly. "Now."

* * *

"You shouldn't have done that," said the Doctor, when they'd turned the corner and were finally out of sight of the café.

"What?" The Master pulled up sharp and swung around, staring in bewilderment that quickly turned to irritation.

"It's not right. Human minds are hardly a match for our powers."

"My dear Doctor," said the Master, wryly, "I thought that was rather the point. Besides, would you have preferred to get into trouble?"

"Of course not, but –"

"Then what else should I have done?"

"Even so," the Doctor persisted. "You don't know what harm you could have done her."

"Does it matter?" asked the Master, with an easy shrug, and then turned away once more.

The Doctor followed, now stewing in an extremely uneasy silence. Those three words, which had fallen so easily from his friend's lips, were deeply troubling. It was true that the Master was the product of a family with a questionable history – very questionable indeed, the Doctor recalled with a grimace, since half of it had been mysteriously expunged from the history books of Gallifrey before either of them had been born – and that the boy's own father had by all accounts risen to power by some ethically dubious methods. The Doctor had hoped, however, that blood wouldn't show, and before now he'd not been given any real reason to cast doubt on the Master's moral standards.

_Or have you merely elected to ignore your own qualms, as you often do?_ he asked himself, stopping in his tracks for a moment. The Master's mind was almost unparalleled in his genius, but the Doctor knew that the boy had not returned unscathed from his encounter with the Untempered Schism. None of the Academy's students ever did; it was a profound ordeal to be inflicted upon any mind, let alone that of a small child fresh from his mother's embrace. It changed them _all_ in one way or another.

The Doctor remembered his own reaction to the Schism. He'd perturbed the watching Acolytes with a sudden explosion of wild laughter before hurtling into the forest as fast as his legs would carry him, ignoring the whip of the branches and the snap of the undergrowth as his young brain bubbled and fizzed with the shock of instant understanding.

It was only as these memories ebbed from the eyes of remembrance that he turned to look back up the street, at the way they had come. With some consternation he saw that the waitress had stepped out of the café and accosted a man in uniform – a soldier, perhaps? – and, after a moment's conversation, raised her arm and pointed at the Doctor. Accusation was written on her face, visible even at that distance, and in response the uniformed man approached the boys at a hurrying pace.

The Doctor, as hazy as his knowledge of human society was, instinctively appreciated that their circumstances were about to become even more precarious that at present. Picking up his pace, he caught up with the Master and was about to usher the other boy along when a hand descended on his shoulder with some force before turning him on his heel. The Doctor overrode his immediate and reflexive desire to struggle out of the man's grip; reason said that it was likely to be of little use. He stilled himself, keeping his hands visible, and then tried to smile at the imposing figure now confronting him.

"I just want to ask you a few questions, sir," said the policeman; unlike the waitress, his expression was not one of righteous anger, but it was nonetheless printed with a severe cast that warned against any attempt at levity. Out of the corner of his eye, the Doctor could see that the Master had turned back. A sudden flicker of surprise was quickly followed by a flash of guilt: he realised that he'd half expected his friend to abandon him and flee the scene.

"Is there something wrong?" asked the Master, addressing the officer and lifting his chin haughtily. It was with a soft sigh of dismay that the Doctor realised that the other boy was trying to use his position of authority – at least, that of his father – in an attempt to assert control over the situation. It was an instinctive response, one he'd been using since he was old enough to walk. Not that it would be of the slightest assistance on an alien world several centuries in their future.

"Did you leave that café without paying?" the policeman was asking. The Doctor surfaced from a sudden attack of embarrassment to hear these words. Given the soft note of impatience in the question, it was clear that the man had just had to repeat himself.

"Yes," said the Doctor, keeping his expression neutral. "I'm sorry," he added, lamely.

"I'm sure you are," the officer responded, and to the Doctor's amazement he sounded mildly sympathetic. "But we're going to have to talk about this at the station. I need both of you to come with me, and we'll call your parents as soon as we get you there."

"No," said the Master, simply and solemnly, and now he stepped into the confrontation and locked gazes with the policeman, his dark eyes widening like a predatory animal's and his nostrils flaring.

"Stop, you don't have to –" the Doctor insisted, but his words fell on deaf ears. He backed away from the scene as the officer's hand slackened, releasing his shoulder, and as he glanced around he saw a familiar figure standing nearby, black robes billowing and flapping in the rising wind like the wings of some ragged bird of ill portent.

The Doctor started to speak up, but suddenly, there was no time left in the world, no time at all. Borusa moved like a striking snake and was upon the policeman with a soft and guttural snarl. Clamping a hand around the man's throat, he lifted his feet from the ground as easily as if he were stuffed with feathers...and then, before the boys could react to their tutor's startling attack, much less act to dissuade him from it, he had hurled the other man into the road and into the path of an oncoming vehicle.

_No, no, no, oh NO..._

The Doctor bit his hand in horror and found himself quite unable to breathe; his narrow chest was a hot twist of fright and both his hearts seemed to have stuttered and failed. The street around him was filled with shrieks, yet none of them were his. Shock had seized his voice. Stumbling out into the road, he dropped to his knees at the officer's side and reached out, but hesitantly and with no real hope. Nobody could look that way and still be alive.

His cold fingertips trailed through fresh blood, still warm and slick, and when he drew back his hand, it was shaking.


End file.
